


Rough

by saxgoddess25



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Catharsis, Consensual Kink, F/F, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 17:03:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8335507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saxgoddess25/pseuds/saxgoddess25
Summary: There are some things that you just need. If you're lucky, you've found the one who will give you just that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains very detailed descriptions of a *consensual* BDSM scene. Please give it a chance, but if that's really not your thing, I won't be offended if you pass it by. Promise!
> 
> I wish I hadn't had to put the pairing on this one because I wrote the story to make the actual pairing a reveal. However, how would Swan Queen shippers find it if they didn't know what it was? Such a dilemma. So...try to read it as though you didn't know who it was about, mmkay? Also, ENJOY! (This story was inspired by season 6, episode 2...the Evil Queen reminding Regina that they like it rough)

                It starts soft. Little puffs against her skin that raise gooseflesh in the chilled room. Piff. Piff. Piff. Then it starts to bite deeper. She shifts in her bonds, the clips rattling against the wood of the cross. The pain is soothing…for now.  It will get much worse by the end, she knows from long experience.  Closing her eyes, she sinks into every stroke, focusing on a spot just in the center of her mind.  A flame burns there, small now, but growing with the fire that sizzles along her nerve endings as the whip strikes home. 

                There is a sudden loud crack by her ear and she jerks.  It’s a reminder. She’s not to lose herself into the abyss. She is to focus. Focus on the pain and use it for her own ends. She settles her mind once again and continues to feed the flame with energy.

                Time passes, yet she cannot tell how long she’s been there, with the wood pressing against her chest and the sweat trickling down her skin. The construct of time is irrelevant when one is reduced to the swish of the whip’s fall and the burn of its bite.  Strokes come quicker, too fast for her mind to process right away, but leaving a much sharper pain in their wake.  She draws breath deeply, powering through the intense sensation, trying to retain her focus on the fire in her mind.  It may be easier if she centers it lower, between mind and heart, drawing from both to help her manage.  She will not cry out, she resolves, not until the pain has reached much higher heights than this.  It’s a matter of pride, you see.  She can take this.  She has taken much worse than this and lived to tell of it.

                The fire grows, grows, and grows still higher.  Her leg is shaking and she cannot control it.  The leather at her wrists rubs at slick skin, pulling and chafing. She has absorbed the fire into her core and yet she does not utter a plea for mercy.  What must her back look like?  How must it inflame the one who is doing this to her?  She can envision. She’s been here before. So many times.

                Her shoulders are on fire, and something trickles down her side. Sweat or blood? The fact that she doesn’t know should probably disturb her, but instead she finds it exciting.  She asked for this, as she always does.  She _wanted_ this.  There is another crack, this one against her skin, and a knifing slash of pain.  She hisses, grits her teeth, and finds herself sobbing.

                The whip’s strikes never falter, never lessen, and she takes every stroke as she cries.  Her head droops between her shoulders as every dark thing she’s ever known pours out with her tears.  It’s ugly, with snot dripping that she cannot wipe away, but there is nothing she can do about that either. That is what all of this is about, after all.  Control.  And she has chosen to give hers to another.  The hand with the whip. All she has the power to do is endure. To survive.  The end will come, but it will not be her choice.

                Eventually the tears pass, as they always do.  The strokes lessen, then stop.  A soft, cool touch brushes her skin and she gasps. Her back is on fire, and she is panting for breath.  Strong fingers wrap into her hair, grasping near the roots and tugging her head back.  She opens her eyes and sees the intense green gaze that she knows so well.

                “Was that what you needed, my love?” Emma’s voice is husky, aroused by the rush of power far beyond simple sexual arousal. 

                “Yes,” Regina assures her, “oh yes.”

                Their lips meet for a long, passionate kiss and Regina finally surrenders everything, every scrap of darkness that has ever lurked in her heart. She feels Emma unclipping the cuffs, then gentle arms wrap around her, mindful of the ravages of whipmarks on her flesh. As they sink to the floor, Emma smiles and pushes a sweat-drenched strand of hair behind Regina’s ear.  “Well, you have always liked it rough.”


End file.
